Downtime
by TheRedRidingHood
Summary: Set after Decoy. Art approaches Tim to discuss what happened on the roadside. Some and discussion of PTSD, just a short vignette to try and flesh stuff out for Tim. I am writing more and different PTSD based stories for our favourite Ranger, this is one of many variations, some language and possible triggers.


Takes place between Decoy and the episode to air on 26th March. Probably HUGE SPOILERS for that episode so be warned. Art discusses Tim's comments and actions from Decoy with the man himself.

* * *

After the long day on the roadside which in turn followed a long night of searching, everyone, absolutely everyone was tired, aching, in desperate need of a rest.

There had been applause from the Marshals who had stayed well beyond office hours to oversee the return of their fellows when the team walked in with a cuffed Drew Thompson. The celebrations had been short lived but they had happened. Art Mullen, Chief Deputy US Marshal had been a part of the hunt, a part of the action. He had seen more of it today than he had in a long time, a fact which was difficult to admit but it was a fact and it had other facts to explain it. Art was getting old, he had a bum knee and a desk job. He didn't go out firing his gun every few days like some of his Marshals. But today he had been a part of it, shit, he had helped blow up an entire car. It had been pretty cool.

But now that the dust had settled, in some ways literally, there was still work to be done. Drew Thompson had been given the shower he so desperately craved, and the change of clothes, although the prisoners orange jumpsuit he had been given wasn't exactly what he had hoped for. But it was what he got, that and a bullet proof vest to be worn at all times no matter how many locked doors and armed Marshals he was standing behind.

Resident former Army Ranger and all around badass Tim Gutterson had advised Drew not be held in cells as it would leave him backed into a corner if, somehow, every Marshal between him and the Detroit mob should be shot down. Instead he was in the Conference room, cuffed to another Marshal while a whiteboard had been moved in front of the door into the locker room, concealing it. If by some unholy turn of events the Detroit guys got into the office and headed for the conference room, Drew had an escape route, since the locker room had fire door.

The door was to be guarded around the clock, until Drew could be disappeared by a team of Marshals whose job it was to make witnesses completely untraceable until they were called upon to testify. It took a little bit of time to make a man vanish into thin air and so until then, and while he gave his statement, he would remain under heavy guard.

Art was heading into the locker room as he wondered if he would have another day as exciting as this before his upcoming retirement date arrived. Today he had seen Tim Gutterson reveal just how much of a serious badass he really was. Art had only a day before been commenting how Drew himself was a badass but Tim had raised the bar for such a title. In less than an hour he had correctly guessed they had walked into a trap, had a verbal spar with the trap builder that left Art's head spinning, devised a Molotov cocktail and source of fire from booze and a truck battery and exploded a car packed full of explosives in order that the Marshals present could race off to the rescue of Raylan Givens and the captive Drew Thompson.

He had been electric, in his element in every way. And he had done all of it while reasonably sure he was having a PTSD episode.

That was what Art was heading to the locker room for. After Drew was secure and a small army of Marshals and local cops had taken up protective positions in and around the Courthouse, Tim had disappeared with his M21 sniper rifle into the locker room.

Art entered to find Tim sitting lotus, cross legged on the floor, a canvas mat rolled out in front of him with his gun resting in neatly placed pieces all over. A small assortment of oils and swabs sat on the edge of the mat and on the other side, a plastic cup had been left for dirty or used up swabs. Tim was cleaning and oiling the rifle, carefully removing gummy crap from each part of the gun, his back to Art, his posture as rigid as it got since he was technically guarding the fire door while he was in the room.

"You one of them Army types that could put that back together in less than thirty seconds, blindfolded?" Art asked.

Tim chuckled "I'm offended you even gotta ask"

"You're cleaning it already? I figure you'll probably need it again soon" Art wondered as walked the length of the benches until he stood behind Tim, sitting down on the seat with a small wince and massaging the bum knee he had spent too many hours running around all day, trying to work the ache out.

"'This is my boom stick'" Tim said in his calm, laconic drawl "Between the chopper and the car bomb there's dust just about everywhere It's 'cause I'll probably need it soon that I am cleanin' it"

"Boom stick?" Art echoed, the younger Marshal turning his head just a little.

"Chief if you haven't seen any of the Evil Dead films we're gonna have to have words" he teased.

"I've seen all of them, thank you" Art scolded gently "I just expected your gun to have a girls name or somethin'"

"I had another rifle I called Suzy. Suzy was unreliable and kind of a bitch. She got me in more trouble than anything else" Tim offered, setting down a cleaned piece, ditching the swab and reaching for the next part.

"The gun or the girl she was named for?" Art asked and Tim gave another small turn of his head and half a smile by way of response.

"Just for the record" Art said lightly, "I'm putting you forward for commendation after today. That whole thing was just incredible. Great instinct, great execution. Also just…super cool, really. I think I might have a guy crush on you" he nodded and Tim finally cracked a little, chuckling.

"Well, gee!" Tim trilled sarcastically "does this mean if I flirt with you I'll get a raise?"

"Maybe, if you try it before the buzz fades. That was some badass shit, you play it right I might give you a new car. Buy me dinner, get me drunk, see what happens" Art sat back on the bench, leaning on his hands "Can I ask you a question, though?"

Tim paused for just a beat before answering, but Art had been listening for it "You're welcome to try, I'm sure you're able of mind and body. Can't say for sure I'll answer, though"

Art took a breath "You said in the car" he started "that you could have been having a fit of PTSD"

Tim kept on cleaning his gun, focussing on his work even though Art was confident he was listening. Tim was a still kind of person, prone to fidgeting only when you asked questions about his service in the Middle East. But when he had something to concentrate on he didn't fidget, the nervous energy the questions stirred up being poured into something. He stayed silent so Art continued.

"I was just wondering if you meant it? Either the part about having PTSD, or not being sure if this was an attack" Art asked "Not in the sense I don't believe you, more like I want to know how concerned I ought to be about one of my best Marshals?"

Tim paused in his cleaning, twisted to face Art and regard him. Art felt himself be appraised, saw a decision be made behind the calm, sometimes cold grey-blue eyes. It was a little freaky. Tim had been a sniper and had shown no qualms about killing folks. Art briefly realised that the expression Tim wore was the same or close to the one he wore when he fired a gun. He offered a small smile.

He turned back around, back to his work "It was true" he said, his voice the same, the laconic drawl, but just for a second, quieter than Art had ever heard it.

"Which part?" Art asked, his own voice soft.

"About having it. And not bein' sure if I was having an episode" Tim explained simply, his voice back to normal "Once I spoke to Colton I was sure I'd been right to be concerned but before that" he shrugged with one shoulder, still facing away.

"You serious about how often you get 'em, or are you just sarcastic all the time, PTSD or no?" Art tried.

"You don't need to be worried" Tim told him, avoiding the actual question.

"I didn't ask if I did" Art pointed out.

Tim was reaching for gun parts, his hands moving quickly and with expert skill. He barely needed to look at what he was doing and for a time, Art just had to watch, couldn't look away. He was ready to wait as long as it took.

"I manage them" Tim finally said "Eight, nine times out of ten if I feel on edge or freaked out, I was right to, like today, and when I'm right and I get to be proactive and it doesn't turn into a full attack"

"And the other times?" Art asked.

"Very, very rarely I get one I can't just shake off" Tim stopped, stared at the gun pieces "For whatever reason those ones happen at home. Maybe because I know there's no cause for 'em or somethin'" he gave half a shrug, went back to what he was doing "Sometimes I get home after the most boring, desk surfin' day and thirty seconds after I walk in the door I lock myself in the bathroom because it's the most easy to defend room, and I try not to hyperventilate 'til I pass out"

Art was silent, not sure what to say.

"Sometimes I have bad dreams. I wake up backed into a corner holdin' a knife. That's usually after somethin' bad happens durin' the day" Tim added.

"What's 'somethin' bad'?" Art asked.

"Seein' you before you put your make up on" Tim fired back in his usual sarcastic drawl, perhaps trying to signal he had reached the limit of what he would share "Reminds me of this scene from The Thing that freaked me out when I was little"

"Which scene?" Art asked him.

"Where the dogs head splits open like the most unholy flower trying to bloom" Tim retorted.

Art had to laugh "Well I am sorry to have upset you" he offered, thinking on what else Tim had said "You really wake up with a knife in your hand?"

Tim paused again "If it helps, the last time it was a butter knife. I haven't hurt anybody. You remember that time I came in with my hand bandaged up, 'bout six weeks after I started?"

"Didn't you say you tripped on a rug, fell on your glass of water?" Art asked.

"That was an attack hit me when I was sleepin'. I grabbed a knife by the blade thinkin' someone was in my house" Tim admitted.

"You're pretty good at lyin' about injuries" Art pointed out.

"That I am" Tim agreed, and that was it for that part of the conversation.

Art took a breath, blew it out while he tried to decide what to say "I guess what I'm asking is, if we're going to be on alert like for a few days, are you going to be okay?"

Tim stopped what he was doing and grew still, enough that if not for his shape in the side of Art's vision, he could believe the younger man had simply evaporated, vanished into thin air and left Art alone.

"You askin' if I'll compromise the case, if I'm a liability?" he asked, all trace of sarcasm, of anything gone from his voice and the tone as empty and frightening as it got.

Art shook his head "I'm asking if I am about to do you very real harm" he said truthfully "I don't believe for a second you're a liability on the case. Today pretty well showcased that even when you might be havin' a PTSD attack you're still my best Marshal" he said, meaning it "My concern is will you be okay once this is done? I am asking in the most basic terms, what is best for you right now, and I'll do that, no questions"

For maybe the first time since Art had known him, Tim seemed surprised, turning to actually stare at Art for a second or two in open shock.

Art didn't look at him, suspected it would be like moving too fast when a rare, skittish animal crept up on you.

Tim turned back to his work again "If you park me at my desk, or send me home, it would be worse" he said, so quietly Art had to listen hard to hear it "If I see it through I can work through the worst parts. It's better for me to be here, involved. I work pretty well under pressure"

"You do" Art agreed "You work pretty well all the time. I'm proud of you, you know that. You're a good kid"

Tim said nothing, but managed to look smaller even as he seemed to sit up straighter with pride. Art had noticed, often, that Tim could be an eighteen year old kid in the body of a deadly, highly trained, twenty nine year old ranger. He had read every Harry Potter book and declared them sub-par, but could list every character and their personal history and explain how The Battle of Hogwarts was a strategic cluster fuck on all sides.

His response to Art's comment was about what Art expected. Tim eventually gave a small, debatably awkward nod by way of response, by way of thanks.

Art rose, patted the younger man on the shoulder and walked out.

He wasn't sure if Tim was okay, or would be okay as the case went on. There were layers of shit still to get through, in the case and maybe for Tim personally, based on that phone call he had with the man who set their trap. Art wasn't sure who would make it through intact, who would suffer the worst, and exactly what the nature of the suffering would be. Either way, he was paying attention now. What ever happened, he would be there.


End file.
